


Drag me off, before I set my world on fire

by crookedspoon



Series: Be quiet and drive (far away) [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Road Trips, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 05:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17136200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: pack your shit i'm picking you up,is all the text says. No details or explanations or anything, but such is Lynch.





	Drag me off, before I set my world on fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [giuggiulu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giuggiulu/gifts).



> Okay, it's finally here, the road trip AU I've been meaning to write since Nov 2016. I'm sorry for the short prologue. Had I known I'd only be writing this as a first part, I'd probably have written this before, but quite honestly, I never felt ready before. Anyway, as usual, I only hold myself to one update per year, but we'll see how this goes. I've recently got a new idea as to where to take this, so my flimsy outline needs adjusting.

It's around half past six when he gets the first text. Proko, he thinks. No one else bothers him this early. He can already see the words: they'd be about the preparations for his Fourth of July party tomorrow, as if Kavinsky hadn't taken care of everything already. Thinking about it pisses him off again, because that bastard Lynch is still ignoring him despite his best efforts.

He wants to punch him so bad.

Instead, he stalks over to the dartboard on the wall and rips the darts from what remains of Lynch's shredded face only to throw them back onto it. It's a cliche thing to do, but there's something freeing in getting to act out your anger. The darts hit with a satisfying _thunk,_ but it's not enough to quell any of his boiling emotions.

He's been trying to distract himself all night.

Henrietta is dead during the summer months, every one of these fucking trust fund kids are vacationing on a yacht or a summer home somewhere instead of throwing parties he could crash. The few that have stayed behind are confined to their dorms and rely on people like Kavinsky to show them a good time. It's like he has to do every goddamn thing himself.

Racing through the streets got boring after a while with no one around to challenge him, but at home, his mother gets on his nerves by pounding on the door when he plays his music too loud.

She always does that, throws bitch fits left and right when he's there, unless he manages to puree something into her fucking smoothie. To shut her up and make her mellow, to stop her from rifling through his shit in search of some pills or some powder. He leaves a baggie out for her anyway, because it's nothing to him and everything to her. Whatever keeps her from bothering him.

He may be a freak, an abomination, a devil child she wishes she never had, but he's a good son and a better supplier who wouldn't dare leave his best customers dry.

Unless he's feeling vindictive. As he's doing right now.

So she can crawl up the walls for all he cares, even if his fucking nerves are fraying, he's not giving her shit. He's suffering, so she can suffer, too.

Anyway, text. He's so bored, he'll even give Proko's pathetic attempts at catching his attention the time of day.

He's getting ready to spit some verbal abuse Proko's way that the boy is sure not to read as such – he's immune to all sorts of nastiness from Kavinsky. Sometimes it pisses him the fuck off. Sometimes he just wants the kid to fight back and mean it. But no, he idolizes Kavinsky way too much for that to happen.

Fuck that.

Kavinsky sneers, but the moment his eyes land on the sender of the last text message, his heart knocks the breath from his lungs in a sharp hiss.

So, Lynch has finally deemed him worthy enough to bestow him with an answer to his fucking question. Or not. Maybe his master hasn't given him permission to go yet, but it doesn't matter. Kavinsky may be saved from his boredom for a while.

His thumb has unlocked his phone faster than he could prepare himself for reading the goddamn text.

And then he's fucking angry all over again. He refrains from replying with a string of curses, although that's exactly what he feels like doing. He probably would have, had he not thrown his phone across the room.

 _pack your shit i'm picking you up,_ is all the text says. No details or explanations or anything, but such is Lynch. Easier to wrestle a grisly to pull its rotten teeth than to get a straight answer out of him. (Hah, no surprise there. Lynch is as straight as a figure eight, or so Kavinsky suspects.)

 _u gotta work on ur pickup lines, man,_ he writes back on another phone he's picked out of his junk drawer. _they're 2 literal_

Inside, though, he's torn. He wants Lynch to come crawling to him, to fucking apologize for having been such a giant dick, but part of him also wants to give him grief and tell him to shove it.

Whatever, he can still do that in person, once Lynch has managed to actually show up. 

Because first and foremost, Kavinsky wants to be entertained. And he's deathly curious as to what kind of drama Lynch brings with him this time.

* * *

The afternoon’s discussion still trembles in his limbs. Decisions are due, yet he's not happy with the options proposed. He needs time, time that he knows he doesn't have.

Whatever happens, he doesn't want this to be on him.

It's why he's here, outside a flimsy, suburban mansion, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel, out of sync with the beats thumping from the speakers.

His cell phone is lying next to him on the console, and it hasn't blinked once since he sent the text telling Kavinsky he's here. That means Gansey hasn't contacted him either, hasn't noticed his absence yet.

Ronan swallows down the guilt that's clawing up his insides for sneaking away in the middle of the night, and clutches the steering wheel harder.

The one thing he can count on is that Kavinsky is never going to ignore him, no matter how much Ronan pissed him off before. He'd practically been begging Ronan for his attention since they parted ways, so he should be delighted that Ronan is here now for him.

His pulse thrumming in his veins tells him this isn't the safest choice. Or the smartest. Being around Kavinsky isn't safe or smart. His dazzling disregard for his own safety or well-being feeds Ronan's own self-destructive impulses. He managed to get away from him once, and it's going to be a struggle to do so again.

He wonders if on a subliminal level he's always been aware that something connects them. That they're both Greywarens.

They are both weapons that could unravel reality itself. If they chose to be.

That is why he's here, bothering to pick up Kavinsky, although he can think of a number of better uses for his time. Getting drunk off his ass, for one.

Ronan kills the engine and the music with it, and the silence that follows is potent. With one hand on his keys and the other on the door handle, he gives Kavinsky another chance to appear of his own account before he marches up there and drags his scrawny ass out of the house.

When Ronan eases open his door, he hears it: screams, coming from inside, as if someone is being murdered. Somewhere down the street, a dog is barking as if telling them to shut up.

Just then, light spills out of the front door as it flies open. The screaming rises in volume. The gaunt figure that emerges narrowly avoids being hit by something heavy that crashes against the door and breaks upon impact, raining shards down on its back. Kavinsky doesn't so much as flinch.

Ronan expects Kavinsky's mom to run after him, to drag him back inside, but nothing happens. Nothing but more screaming and smashing of plates.

Kavinsky himself walks down to the curb as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, and gets into the car as if meeting an old friend.

Or, not quite an old friend. The hunch of his shoulders is sullen, his hands are balled into fists inside the pockets of his zip hoodie, and he's staring straight ahead, resolute not to make eye contact. The effect is spoiled by the slice of kiwi resting on his shoulder. Ronan doesn't reach out to remove it.

"Well?" Kavinsky asks after a beat. His cheeks look hollower than usual, or maybe that's just the shit lighting from the street lamps. "Aren't you getting us out of here?"

Ronan cocks an eyebrow at him, surprised that this is happening without the fight he's been raring up for, that Kavinsky is so compliant even though Ronan can feel him seething beneath the surface. He's had enough fights for one night and is not seeking to add another.

Ronan doesn't ask if he's okay, but it seems like Kavinsky can sense it anyway.

"Just fucking drive, man," he says.

So Ronan starts up his car again without a word, and takes them out of here. Kavinsky doesn't ask where they're going. Ronan wouldn't tell him anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Gasoline" by Audioslave.


End file.
